As Certain Dark Things are Loved
by the-warner-syndrome
Summary: "Because if there was one thing that was so obvious, it was that no matter who, when or where they are, they will always find a way back to one another." A collection of RusAme stories. Ratings vary. [Previously posted on Blue Bird Syndrome]
1. Competition

**Story 1: Competition**

If there was one thing that America learned after years and years of history, it's that he never liked competitions.

 _(He was a very competitive nation, but he was not entirely a competitive man_ )

 _"Have you ever been jealous of Russia? Of the power he holds?"_

No. He has not.

 _"He is as strong as you. He might destroy you some day."_

What do any of them know.

 _"He has lived longer than you. Experienced worse things. He knows more than you ever will."_

And that was exactly why he always hated being contrasted with his counterpart. To even think that their individual history was something to be competed over is too _cruel_.

Because no matter how much greater America was, no matter how tough his military forces, his economy, his own defences - he will never know of the burden that Russia had to carry.

He does not know of the pain and torture that the cold nation experienced.

He does not understand the gravity of Russia's words when he first told him that people don't like children who can't play nice.

 _(Sometimes he wonders if it is partly his fault, but then he remembers those dreadful years, and it is the only answer that he needs to know._ )

There came a time when greatness and power became a competition. The memories were always as clear and fresh as they had been years ago. It was the time when they had both been pushed to their limit, forced to hate someone they've known and familiarized with for so long. The time when America had to force in the bile in his throat, reminding himself over and over again that _"you hate him. He's hurt your friends and even yourself. You are in no way alike at all."_

 _(What had not been competition were the wars mapped out on their skin and the vivid memories of their suffering._ )

They both endured, but Russia endured more, and America _knows._

He's seen it. He remembers them all too well.

He's seen the lashes all over his back, remembers all the cuts on his wrists; he sees the deep scars on the flesh of his neck, often covered by soft scarves that meant more than anything in the world.

 _(There are certain nights when Alfred would take his time upon encountering each scar. He touches them with gentle hands, loving how Ivan shivers just the slightest bit underneath him. He kisses them as if he's kissing stars._ )

He's seen dark lines and deep tired eyes - bloodshot, expressionless, empty, as if pieces of who he was had already been scattered all throughout the pages of history and there was nothing left for the him who was here now. These are the eyes of a nation who's cried for years and years - and at the very same time, the eyes of a man who could no longer cry; not because he forgot how to, but rather because he no longer can.

And the truth is that Russia never _tells him_ about any of this. He rarely mentions his own history and the things they do to him when no one is looking, or rather, when no one wants to look. He doesn't tell America where all these come from, when they appeared, and why he's had more scars than what the history books say.

( _What he does tell America, however, is that "_ Ivan Braginski is a very happy man who has learned how to love" _and for Alfred Jones, it's more than enough._ )

So in return, he does not ask, nor does he tell.

He doesn't tell the Russian nation that seeing the truth marred on his flesh had always disturbed his thoughts. He doesn't remind him that he knows how it feels to be hurt and forced into committing acts he never wanted to.

He never wishes that he could bear the pain with him, because he knows that he never could. He will never understand because despite everything else they are just too different.

Their own pain had never been a competition.

( _When will everyone understand that?_ )

That's why, in the coldest and stormiest of nights- nights like these that bring back memories of their bitter history, Alfred embraces Ivan tighter, more desperately, limbs tangled under thick sheets and bodies flush against each other, their breaths and the ticking of the clock the only sound in the room.

( _He embraces him as if he were an insane man who craved for the earth and the seas. As if Ivan was the last string of hope - the last candle in this cold, cold world whose flames remained alive._

( _Flickering,_ he thinks, _but alive._ )

"Ivan," he whispers into the dark as thousands of words and images to life in his mind - and suddenly, they stop, and his thoughts settle with one certain phrase.

" _Vanya,_ " he hears the sheets beside him rustle. A small groan lets him know that he's disturbed his lover from his peaceful slumber, but Al is unsatisfied with the response.

"Ivan." Alfred repeats, firmer.

"Mmmh."

" _Ya tebya lyublyu._ "

For a second, he hears nothing. And then,

"...I love you, too... _moya... solnishka_ ," Ivan mumbles, pulling Alfred closer to him. " Try... sleep, Alfryet. It's... late..."

The older nation is fast asleep once more, and Alfred decides that he too should rest. He relaxes himself, nestling his head on Ivan's chest.

He listens to the sound... or rather the lack of sound of his heart. It's ironic, really, how something like this was what had always given Alfred a kind of warmth he has always wanted.

( _He decides that if Ivan's heart had beat louder, then its rhythm would have matched with his own._ )

Finally, he closes his eyes.

There are secrets hidden deep within Ivan's mind. Ones that he will never tell. Ones that Alfred doesn't need to know, because what matters the most is that they are here, and they are together.

( _He falls asleep with a smile on his face, content._ )

* * *

 **Translations:**

Vanya- Russian diminutive for "Ivan"  
Ya tebya lyublyu- I love you  
Moya solnishka- My little sun

 **Author's Notes:**

If you've made it this far, then I'd like to thank you so much for reading (or maybe skipping through parts of) this story! I hope this starting fic has earned me a place in the Hetalia fanfiction side of the fandom though. I really hope to write a lot more stories here.

I also want to apologise if the writing style's kinda messy, or if there were some errors.

Thanks again for reading! Leave a review/ favourite/ follow if you liked it! Constructive criticisms are most definitely welcome.


	2. Challenge

Story 2: Challenge

If there was one thing that most people would not have known about Ivan Braginski, it would be his love for all things adventurous. For a tall man like him, it wouldn't be unexpected, but knowing his gentle demeanour and soft-spoken voice, then it rules out everything one might have first thought about him. He could even say that adventure had always been the one attracted to him.

You could ask him to jump off a 30 storey building in his trousers and scarf, with only a rope harnessed onto him, and he'd be more than glad to do so. Hell, he might even pay you to let him do that kind of shit.

 _Ты че, псих!_ , a distant voice echoes in his mind.

Ivan simply chuckles.

-xXx-

He may be insane, but he was not stupid. He has reasons for allowing himself of something so uncharacteristic of him, one of those being the fact that he could never die; maybe a few cuts and scratches here and there.

But there was just something so _breath-taking_ with doing dangerous things. The way your heart feels like it's about to burst, or as if the blood in your body has finally run cold. He loves the way the hairs on his arms stand up, and the way he feels like he's about to pass out on the ground.

He's in love with the idea of being challenged, and the danger that it always brought with it.

And maybe that was why he was here now. Staring at the man seated next to him; the man whom he considered an enemy until only years ago. They were at another one of their world meetings, with him to represent the nation of Russia. It addressed the topic of global warming and ideas on how they could stop it - but despite their unusually fruitful discussion, they all had to stop short and take a half-hour break due to the incessant complains of Italy and a few other nations.

Everyone vacated the room until all that was left was him and America.

"-So they were all buck naked, and Iggy ended up scolding them all!" Alfred said, his boisterous laughter echoing through the walls. Ivan snapped from his trance, not having heard of the nation's previous words. Surely a joke where someone he knows ends up getting naked is something he doesn't really want to hear again, so he simply smiles at the blond.

"That is really funny, Alik."

America pouts. "You weren't listening."

"I was."

"You weren't"

"Was."

"Weren't"

"Was."

"Nope! Then tell me what I said earli-!"

His eyes widen, the sound of chairs scratching the room's tiles as Ivan lunges himself forward and roughly presses his lips to Alfred. The sudden action causes Alfred to freeze, the pulse of his own heart racing. But moments later all thoughts of whatever the hell was happening right now fade away, his body relaxes and he lets himself melt into the cold man's touch, wrapping both arms around his neck and returning the kiss with an intensity that showed resistance. Even until now, he thinks as they pull apart for a taste of air, there is still something that makes it so difficult for them to not fight for dominance.

Yet neither of them were really complaining.

"You made... a joke," Ivan mutters each word with difficulty, still retaining his usual child-like tone, "And then... I- I kissed you... like _this_." Their lips connected once more, much less controlling than the previous one, but it still makes them so acutely aware of sweet sweet warmth as their bodies are pressed against one another. Minds are spinning and hearts are beating so incredibly fast, but neither of them stop.

Ivan bites his lower lip.

Alfred moans against his mouth, hands roaming everywhere. He feels cold slim fingers brush his cheek, and he shivers. Ivan kisses him deeper, as if what they had was not enough, and Alfred gasps, the chill of his lips burning him, like... like...

 _Like whiskey_ , he thinks. Like taking a shot of cold whiskey and pushing down the pleasurable burn in your throat. Like having your entire body experience fire and rain at the same time, the sudden gush of adrenaline and desire for more more more pounding into your veins.

It's painful in a way that he hopes that it doesn't stop, that he doesn't ever want it to stop, because _god fucking dammit_ Ivan Braginski is making him feel so alive for the first team in decades. He tilts his head up as Ivan makes his way down his neck, sucking and kissing and licking on certain spots that make him elicit just the most delicious sounds, encouraging the other. He feels a smile form against his skin, and flinches at the sudden pain - at teeth pressing down so deep - and sighs once it's all over. Al runs his hands through soft platinum hair and then down down down to peel away his scarf and his coat and _everything everything he's wearing definitely needs to be off-_

But then America hears familiar muffled voices, footsteps growing louder and louder, and it snaps him out of this sweet and disastrous ecstasy. He realizes what he's done - and with _Russia_ , for that matter - and the haziness and lust clouding his eyes are gone, replaced by fear and panic and anger.

 _What have we done?!_

America shoves the nation away with enough force, almost making him fall. There's a different sort of pain in his chest now, but his mind is too focused somewhere else to even notice. Both of their faces are flushed deep red, their breathing shallow as electric blues stare coldly at surprised violets.

"You fucker!" America yells at him, but the words have barely enough force to mean anything at all. He grips onto the arm rests of his chair, "You - you attacked me!"

Russia hummed. "Your expressions said otherwise, Fedya." He corrected his posture, straightening his coat, and walked toward the other nation while ignoring his unceasing yells. "Hey! What the hell are you do-"

He unwraps his scarf, watching closely, amusedly, as he sees all the confusion and curiosity, and wraps the warm item around America's neck (he hears a sharp intake of breath; America must've seen all the nuisances around his neck). He leans down and whispers, "I don't want anyone knowing that you're mine now."

He plants a short but firm kiss on the nation's lips, ignoring the way America unconsciously responds.

"Stop! I'm not your property! What you did was disgusting as hell!" The look on his face seems to tell otherwise. "Hey! Where are you going?!"

"Outside. I do not feel like attending anymore."

"W-well you better! You just violated the hero's lips!" He yells. It doesn't go unnoticed that he tightens his hold around the scarf though. "You don't even deserve a goodbye from me. And I'll never be yours, nor will I ever fall for you, so you can just forget it!"

Ivan mumbles something so inaudible that Alfred is tempted to ask what it was, but decided against it. Instead he watches as an unfamiliar smile settles on the other nation's lips. He says before slamming the door shut, " _до свида́ния, Америка._ "

At that exact moment new voices fill the room as he walks away; England is yelling at America for idling around, and Italy mentions the scarf around the superpower's neck (but no one seems to take notice of the nation and his words). He hears the slight stutter in America's voice as he tries to pretend that nothing happened.

"Alfred F. Jones," Ivan mutters, associating the name with the taste of sweet coffee and the image of a sunflower in a tall field. A small grin is plastered on his face.

He decides that Alfred Jones will definitely be his most dangerous challenge yet.

* * *

 _"And I'll never be yours, nor will I ever fall for you, so you can just forget it!"_

We'll see about that.

* * *

Translation:

Ты че, псих! - You are crazy!

до свида́ния, Америка - Goodbye, America


End file.
